If you’re a fellow wrinklie, ticky-bets something which drives you skite – rotten service.
While younger folk have endless patience, prepared to put up with atrocious behaviour in shops, restaurants, wherever, never that fussed to complain, we oldies canna stick long waits and incompetent staff. We name it, blame it and shame it. And, when things go wrong on a special occasion, the whole thing is kiboshed.
Like last week, when I was meeting pals I hadn’t seen in yonks, thanks to being a bit of a hermit recently with health problems. An early Christmas lunch and long claik was just the job.
Aboot 10 minutes into oor natter, we spied we’d still no menus nor offer of drinks. In dire need of a swiggo of vino, I tried to catch the eye of one of the many bodies flying back and forth past us. Aye, it was busy, but not exactly a two-for-one chipper.
We’d have been affa happy waiting for food if only we’d drinks to down and the menus to mull. But not a soul acknowledged our existence; eyes in a different direction every time they hove near, prompting my mate to theorise: “Maybe we’re a’ ghosts!” Cacophonous cackles – which you’d think might have attracted a waiter or two. Nuh.
Inevitably, oor catch-up conversation was abandoned as we a’ craned oor chicken-necks this wye and that, shot up oor arms, flapped oor bats’ wings and occasionally scraiked: “Scyooz me”.
Nearly 20 minutes before we got so much as a jug of water. We complained, they admitted we’d been “forgotten”, but not a bawbee aff the bill. Bad show.
A pucklie years ago, when my quine and I were on a theatre weekend in London, we into a posh clothes shop on Oxford Street to discover a massive queue at each of the two tills. Next to them was a third till not in use, although two assistants were in deep and giggly conversation right beside it.
We stood in line for at least 10 minutes, while my blood pressure zoomed. My quine begged me to stop loudly tutting and harrumphing, but I was gradually getting into Mo-mad-mode, surveying the two indolent sniggerers. Why in the name, I mused, was no one asking them to open the third till?
Eventually, as my quine squirmed, I up to them, drew attention to the dozens waiting and requested one of them to do the bizz. They refused because: “We’re on our break.” Aaargh.
I flung masellie into the street, dodging cars, wildly waving my walking stick, like some demented wicked witch oot o’ Disney
But let’s plunk cantankerous old Mo in the corner for the rest of the year. Here’s my festive special tribute to a knight of the road – and it’s nae often I’ve good words about First Aberdeen.
A couple of weeks ago, as I tootled oot the Coopie next to the Music Hall on a dreich, rainy Monday morning, hoping I hadn’t just missed my 13 bussie, in which case I’d have 20 – probably more – minties to wait – it went and pulled up at the stop right cross the road. Sod it!
I flung masellie into the street, dodging cars, wildly waving my walking stick, like some demented wicked witch oot o’ Disney. Prayed someone was getting onto it to give me time to get there.
Brandishing the stick and scraiking: “Wait!”, I reached it before he pulled off. Pechin’ my thanks as I hirpled on, here’s him: “I saw ye fine. I kint to wait.” My super-service hero.
Are beach masterplan designers having a laugh?
City council planners have given the green light to the first part of the multimillion pound “masterplan” for the beach. Well, having seen the artist’s impression, it looks like more of a red light to me.
Fit in the name are those 10-foot concrete canopies in the new children’s play area a’ aboot? The ones the cops have already warned could be a magnet for hooligans, let alone a huge blot on the landscape next to our beautiful Beach Ballroom. Are these designers having a laugh?
There are also concerns about traffic problems when an area of the Beach Boulevard is lost. And how come officials, not councillors, have given the go-ahead? Because there were fewer than six objections to the plans. Go on, Aberdonians, take a look at them and have your say on the future of the beach.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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